Something hidden behind our smiles
by Valhalla
Summary: He gets the better of her eventually." An expedition digs up more than just bones sometimes. Charlotte/Daniel; AU, maybe S6 speculation.


**Title:** Something hidden behind our smiles  
**Characters/Pairings:** Charlotte/Daniel  
**Rating:** K  
**Summary:** _"He gets the better of her eventually." _  
**Spoilers:** AU, S6 reset, pre-island even maybe ...  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine.  
**A/N:** Written for Livejournal's lostsquee Lost Fic Battle and the prompt _expedition_.

----

He's wearing a plaid shirt rolled up to the elbows and khaki pants when he first arrives, rucksack slung over one shoulder and leather-bound book in hand, and he kind of-sort of fits the part but for the way he still squints into the Tunisian sun, how his pale skin's already started to freckle, not tan, and _newbie_, Charlotte scoffs, imagining windowless labs and lines of equation that never get beyond their page.

She nudges another team member, busy with a trowel beside her. "Who's that one?"

There's barely a glance thrown over his shoulder, still wrists-deep in sand. "Just got in. Here to help with the geophysics unit."

_Geophysics_ -- she parrots it back, lips pursing in disaccord, like they need another lab rat onsite to muck up their schedule and bumble around the site. "Fine, but I'm not playing babysitter."

It almost gets lost in the rising dust and wind, her friend's laugh, sand whirling and shifting against the too-hot breeze -- so hot she barely notices anymore, the constant sheen of sweat; it gathers against her hair, under her arms, beads along her heck -- and Charlotte rises, feeling the grains crease between her fingers, gritting her teeth. This, she loves, though the others would think her foolish; a reminder, always, that she's here, of what she's doing, grinding against her skin.

"Excuse me, Ms. Lewis?"

He sticks out one hand, clumsy, smile almost like a question, dark-haired and thin and T-shirt already drenched. Her shake's a little too strong, tossing out brisk directions to the tents, where to store his things, who to report to; he nods quick, appreciative, and _thank you_, he murmurs, moving past her.

_Good_, Charlotte thinks, even though it catches at her, his hesitating politeness, watching his retreating form, _at least we'll know where we stand_.

----

He gets the better of her eventually, wins her over with soft words (with quiet observations issued in the spaces between conversations) and unsaid offers of help (of support, to fix a lashing come undone in a sand storm or compare notes on new samples) and more insight than she gives him credit for, at first.

She figures it's not exactly a rare thing, where Dan (and she calls him _Dan_ now, apparently, chiding herself for already developing such a soft spot, one that makes her triple-check for his slight, slender figure when they're out at the excavation site, send a bristling glare at anyone who waves off 'that crackpot physicist', let herself smile when his face brightens) is concerned.

----

Charlotte hears the canvas of his tent rustle before she sees him, barely a shadow brushing by her own shelter, outlined in lamplight. It only takes a second before she's grabbing the closest jacket to her cot, slipping on her boots, following out into a cold that's so harsh after the day's unending heat.

The moon's banked low in the sky, across a stretch of blue-black deep enough to take her breath away, endless above miles of sand. Ten more steps and she's at his side, scrambling up the ridge that overlooks the site, stilling as she reaches him, journal in hands and staring out at the horizon.

"What're you doing up?"

His lips curl upwards at her question, eyes shining with a welcome kind of tenderness, motioning to the book he holds -- _just thinking_, Daniel shrugs, flipping through pages, and Charlotte's about to crack a joke about whether his brain ever stops when the paper settles and there, sketched on the blue and pink lines, is a symbol (_that_ symbol) matching the one on the polar bear collar she'd unearthed earlier that day, a hidden corner of the dig she'd cordoned off and covered, almost feeling light-headed, giddy, with possibility.

A sharp intake of breath -- she stutters; _Dan, where'd you see this_? -- and his eyes don't stray from the page when he answers.

"I know what you found today, that it's important to you. And I think this -- it's important to me, too." One finger traces blue ink, that so-familiar octagon. "Dunno why."

His eyes are still burning and when he kisses her, she's mostly just thinking _oh_; surprised and reeling from his revelation, registering the weight of his hands at her sides, journal still curled in his grip. It's a cool pressure, his palm slotted between the skin of her stomach and her linen shirt, as their kiss continues, deepens, brings her back to the moment and the man she's with.

Somewhere in the dirt, she knows, there is a piece of rough leather bearing the same mark -- it's branded on her memory, it feels like -- and in the lines of Dan's book and an island with the same, and for just a second, it matters more than ever and then it doesn't matter at all.


End file.
